


The torture of purity

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Past Drug Use, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9795602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Seth Gecko keeps saying that he has no feelings for Kate Fuller.Pity he's the only one who believes it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EssayOfThoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/gifts), [clutzycricket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/gifts).



> First FDTD fic, and first smut in a while, so here's hoping it works on both fronts!
> 
> For Aich and Never, who enabled and approved.

Kate doesn't strip the colour from her hair.

Seth's not sure she can - it had been soft, dark brown when last he saw her, and that unreal red the first time he saw her after Amaru moved in, and he somehow can't imagine the Queen of Hell standing in line in a drugstore to buy one of those shitty box dyes Vanessa used to try out sometimes, when she wanted something a little more reliable than a wig.

So maybe Kate can't strip the colour from her hair, but he does wonder why she hasn't dyed over it. He's been kind of thinking of inking over the track marks that still show up on the inside of his elbow when he's too hot or too cold, and the fucking fang marks he let Santanico make. Cover it up. Move it on.

He kind of likes the red hair, he's got to admit - even if it's just to himself. She looks a little more at home with a gun in her hand when her hair isn't that soft, dark brown, heavy over her shoulder.

She looks a little more at home with a gun in her hand than Seth ever expected as a general rule, and honestly? The only thing he likes more than a lady with a gun in her hand - one that's pointed away from him - is a lady with a sword in her hand.

(He noticed. He's only human. She was wearing a lot of leather.)

Right now, it's tied up high on top of her head, leaving her neck and the top of her back exposed by that little white tank top she's wearing. It's red right to the roots, too bright against her pale skin, and he almost reaches out to run his finger over her nape, over the contrast, before reminding himself of two things:

  1. That would be creepy.
  2. Richard is the creepy brother.



So instead, he looks away, and goes to the fridge for a beer - they've had to start buying fancier beer, because Kate's kind of fussy, but maybe he doesn't drink it as much to get drunk as he used to, so he doesn't mind it tasting nicer.

Richie does, because Richie is a hick despite all his pretensions to taste, and he'd probably prefer some kind of shitty homebrew crap stirred up in a tin bath, but he drinks it just as much as Seth does, so Seth figures, whatever, it's alcohol, it does the job.

Kate glances up with a smile when he puts a beer down beside her, but only for a second - she's looking over the plans for their next job, working out just how likely it would be for her to be able to go old-school and crawl through the vents to the vault room.

Unlikely, but she likes the challenge of working this shit out. It's kinda funny, watching her figure crazy plans out, to the point where they might actually work, and then laugh at herself because, uh, sure, like she'll be able to convince either him or Richie to crawl through a fucking septic tank to come at the vault from underneath, since the floor has no motion sensors.

They'd crawled through that fucking septic tank in Hazmat suits, and they'd drilled right through the floor and emptied the fucking vault, and they'd been in the next state over before the bank even realised they'd been robbed. Kate's crazy ideas worked, was the problem.

Seth had to admit - the variety was kinda nice. Not that he was going to admit that to her.

 

* * *

She arrives home one day with a bag from a store Seth's never heard of hanging from her wrist, which isn't unusual - he's the first to admit that he doesn't know shit about shopping,

It’s a leather goods store. She draws three pairs of driving gloves out, sets them out on the table, and smiles.

Richie won’t wear his - he’s got a very specific tastes, and hates having his hands covered because it means he can’t use the fucking eye bullshit - but Seth’s missed his gloves. He got used to wearing them all the time, the last few months, and these ones Kate’s bought? They’re a lot nicer than he’s used to. He’d picked the last pair for practical reasons: they covered most of his hands, he could pull a trigger without taking them off, and he only  _ mostly _ looked like a hitman in them.

“Nice,” he says, and Kate smiles.

He works really, really hard to not look at her flexing her fingers in her own gloves, which are shinier than his and have bright chrome fastenings.

Leather, metal, big hair. His libido’s like a seventies rock band.

 

* * *

Richard sees it, because of fucking course he does.

He doesn’t say anything, but every time he catches Seth watching Kate, he makes this stupid face, like, raises his eyebrows and leans way back, and it’s almost as if  _ Seth  _ is the crazy one now. He doesn’t like it.

Richie laughs his bony ass off when Seth goes and gets inked over the marks Santanico’s fangs left in his arm, not because covering scars with a tattoo is dumb, or something he’s never done before, but because this time, it isn’t just the stupid flames that he’s been kind of thinking about getting lasered.

They look cheap. Seth is a great many things, but he is no longer cheap.

The tattoo he gets over Santanico’s teeth is a simple little thing - he ignores all the pointed questions the artist asks about his  _ very specific  _ scars, mentions something about cigarette burns, and then sits back and lets the uncomfortably good looking guy stick the needle in his arm.

The reason Richie laughs isn’t because of the blatant lie, or because he thinks the lilies look stupid - two of them, curled open and resting against one another on his inner arm, exposed when he rolls up his sleeves - but because they seem almost  _ too _ fitting.

“A funeral flower,” he says, “and a girl whose name means either  _ torture _ or  _ purity. _ You’re in way over your head here, brother.”

“Fuck off, Richard.”

“All I’m saying,” Richie says, sipping his horchata through a straw like a goddamn five year old, “is that you never inked up for Vanessa.”

Seth doesn’t wear his sleeves rolled up until well after his skin has healed up. He waits until the lilies don’t seem so startlingly white against his arm when he catches sight of them in the shower, and then begins to think of something to cover the track marks there in his inner elbow, something that could spread up through the flames and make them feel a little less cheap.

Richie doesn’t stop laughing.

 

* * *

 

 

Richie gets shot in the face with a shotgun while they’re making an otherwise clean getaway, and bitches about it all the way home.

Kate laughs so hard she snorts, and Seth feels the back of his neck get all hot.

“He looks like a straining spoon,” Kate giggles, and even Richie has to laugh at that.

 

* * *

He dreams of-

Okay, so, Seth used to make fun of Richie having  _ visions  _ of Santanico all the time, but ever since she sank her teeth into him, he’s been kind of seeing her. Mostly in his sleep. Usually she’s driving or buying tequila or whatever, but sometimes she’s seeing him right back.

Like now.

“And you always said  _ Richard _ was the freaky one,” she says. She looks really good - she’s stopped wearing quite so much leather, which is a relief, and with her hair scraped back like Kate’s usually is when she gets up in the mornings, she looks more… Human.

“Listen,” he says, “I didn’t ask to have some kind of Jedi mind-link with you. I let you suck my blood so we could save the world, and it worked. Think you could back off a little?”

“She’s a special girl, Seth,” Santanico says, crossing her legs and revealing the ugliest slipper socks Seth has ever had the displeasure of seeing. “Think you can step up?”

“I- there will be no  _ stepping up, _ ” he says testily, feeling kind of victimised by both Richie and Richie’s sort-of ex. “Kate is- I don’t.”

He takes a deep breath, presses his hands together in front of his face, and looks Santanico right in the eye.

“There will be no  _ stepping up _ under this roof,” Seth says, slow and clear. “No one will be doing any  _ stepping up _ while I’m in charge around here.”

 

* * *

Seth is not really in charge.

He’s the only one who doesn’t know it.

 

* * *

Richie takes him out back one night, and Seth is right about to make a joke about being put down when he catches himself - death is still too bitter on the back of his tongue for that.

(It’s bright white in the lilies and gladioli creeping through the flames on his arm, and striking in the purple crocuses peeping here and there over his shoulder. He hasn’t the balls to get the flames lasered off, but he’s going to disguise them as best he can, even if it means he ends up inked from neck to wrist.)

“Listen,” Richie says, cracking open a couple of beers and pressing one very deliberately into Seth’s hand. “I get that you’ve got like, a million hang ups, because you’re fucked up, and I’m probably one of them, right?”

True, even if he doesn’t want to admit it - he’s fixed a lot of the bad in his and Richie’s relationship over the past eighteen months, taking advantage of Kate’s just being there, being sweet and patient, to use her as a well of calm so he doesn’t fly off the handle with Richie.

It’s been easier than he expected, because as well as having Kate for balance and back up, he’s been staying off the hard liquor, he hasn’t touched a syringe since the last time he shot up before the fucking apocalypse, and he hasn’t even been drinking much of Kate’s fancy beer. She even has them eating  _ salads,  _ which feels kind of like a sin, considering the kind of decadence they can afford.

But it makes her happy, to think she’s keeping them healthy - under the flaming hair and the leather gloves and bank-robbing brain, she’s still a preacher’s daughter, panicky at the very idea of someone in her house going hungry.

And - it  _ is _ her house. Sure, one of Seth's aliases is on the deed, and it was his money that bought it, but it's Kate that picked out all the soft furnishings and arranged the little back garden so that it isn't  _ that _ obvious when Richie forgets to leave out the trash for pick up on Tuesday mornings, and she's the one who bugs them into going grocery shopping and cooking instead of just buying take-out.

"You're not the old man," Richie says, clinking his bottle against Seth's, as if he thinks Seth is still part of this conversation - as if Seth isn't currently spinning into some kind of self-induced Hell right now. "She's safe with you, brother."

Kate is safer than she knows, safer even than Richie knows, because Seth'll kill the next person who comes anywhere near her. He let her down and let Amaru in - he won't make the same mistake twice. Not when he hasn't forgiven himself for the first time.

(And if Richard was half as fucking smart as he  _ thinks  _ he is, he'd have realised just what Seth's fucking  _ hangups  _ are all about how much he has  _ failed Kate _ in the past. He can't put himself into her life like that again, because he doesn't trust himself to be better than he was.)

Him and Richie gave Kate somewhere to stay, but it kind of feels as if Kate has given them a home. Seth can’t be sure, though, because it’s been such a long fucking time.

* * *

 

 

Scott Fuller comes to visit, and pins Seth to the wall with one of his fucking swords.

“If you even  _ think  _ about touching her-”

“Listen, kid,” Seth says, fully exasperated and more pissed off with himself than with Scott, because if  _ anyone _ else had said that, he would have agreed. “I have no more control over my brain than you do over your mouth these days - it’s a free-for-all, okay?”

“She deserves better,” Scott says. “I don’t know why she chose to come with you-”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” Seth snaps, “but I’m gonna do my best to make sure she doesn’t regret it.”

He gets so, so drunk after that, sitting out in the back yard on the dumb little ornamental stone bench Kate made Richie lift right into the middle of a flowerbed and downing bottle after bottle of stupid fancy beer. Richie appears out of the house around eleven, a bottle of brandy in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Seth’s never liked vodka, never trusted himself with it because it goes to his head too fast, so of course, he takes the fucking vodka.

Richie disappears somewhere between there and the bottom of the bottle. Seth manages to stumble to the trash before he gets sick, wondering vaguely if he has alcohol poisoning, and when he looks up, Kate is silhouetted against the porch light, holding out a glass of what is either more vodka or cool, clear water.

It’s water. Of course. She runs her fingers through his hair as he gulps it down, and then heaves his arm over her shoulders and helps him into the house. His room is opposite hers, and when she settles him as best she can on his bed, he can see across the hall into her room, which is neat, and looks soft and warm and comfortable.

“Kate,” he croaks, catching her by the finger and squinting up in what he thinks is the direction of her face. “Stay?”

It might be the vodka talking, but he thinks she bends down and kisses his temple.

“Another night, maybe,” she whispers, and then she’s climbing into her bed, across the hall, and turning out her little bedside light. 

 

* * *

Their next heist goes bad.

If asked, Seth couldn’t say  _ how.  _ All he knows is that someone, somehow, tripped a silent alarm, and while Richie swoops in and covers Kate when the sheriff opens fire, he can’t quite cover Seth, and buckshot hurts like an absolute son of a  _ bitch. _

And his suit is ruined! What the hell!

“You’re hysterical,” Kate tells him, sitting across his lap in the back seat of the car as Richie hightails it toward not-their-house. She’s still wearing her gloves, and has a pair of long-nose tweezers in one hand. Her hair is all gathered up, leaving her neck pale and very bare, and Seth lets his hand settle right there, where her neck sweeps down into her shoulder. “Shut up or I’ll let you get blood poisoning.”

She sets aside the tweezers for a second, and tears open his shirt and waistcoat.

“Fuck!” Richie shouts when buttons ping off the back of his head, and Seth laughs so hard he feels sick, although that might be the buckshot.

“If you wanted me naked, you only had to ask,” he tells Kate, or at least, he thinks he tells her. His speech is going a little slurry, kind of how it used to when he shot up, and-

“Did you give me something?” he demands, as sharp as he can manage, and she sighs.

“This is going to hurt,” she tells him, “and I couldn’t risk you squirming.”

His eyes probably roll dramatically back in his head, and when he wakes up, Richie is carrying him into the house. He’s down to his shoes and pants, and there’s some kind of bandage stuck all up his left side, and he feels like a truck fell on him.

“Kate got all the shit out of your side,” Richie tells him. “She’s gone ahead to turn down your blankets or something. I don’t know.”

“We had to stop at a blood bank,” Kate says, and the skirt of her pretty white dress is all brown and red. “You’ll be fine, if you do as you’re told.”

Seth has never liked to admit that he - sometimes, very  _ specific  _ sometimes - actually really enjoys being told what to do, and wouldn’t mind Kate giving him orders more often.

“Okay,” he says, and then he thinks he passes out.

* * *

 

 

Kate is asleep in a chair that was not beside his bed when he left his room when he wakes up. She’s changed out of her white dress, into pyjamas with little pink bunnies on them and a sweatshirt that looks like it’s probably either Seth’s own or Richie’s.

There’s a needle tucked into his elbow, but it’s hooked up to a now empty blood bag, and Richie is standing at the door.

“Looking a little better, brother,” he says, and Seth laughs, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do.

Kate stirs very slightly, but just curls up smaller and goes back to sleep.

“What do I do, Richard?” Seth asks, whispering. He’s afraid Kate’s going to wake up and hear him, but if he doesn’t ask now, half out of his mind on pain and pain meds, he’ll never ask. “How do I do this?”

Richie shrugs, sits on the edge of the bed, and shrugs again.

“Talk to her, I guess?” he suggests. “I dunno, man, my last girlfriend appeared to me in visions and turned me into a vampire - I am  _ not  _ the guy you want advice from on relationships.”

 

* * *

Seth is having maybe the best dream he’s ever had.

Vanessa is there, handing him signed divorce papers, saying  _ no hard feelings, babe,  _ and generally being the badass he married rather than the woman he turned her into by being an ass hole. She looks great, and drives off in a sick Mustang with a huge bag of cash in the back seat, and there’s some of that hip-hop-rock fusion stuff she loves blasting from the speakers. She looks amazing. She looks  _ free,  _ which is one of the many things Seth could never give to her.

Richie is there, too, sunbathing on a golden beach, somehow not sizzling like a side of bacon on a hot pan. He’s sipping horchata, but from the smile on his face it is definitely spiked with something a lot stronger than fucking  _ milk,  _ and it sure ain’t blood. There isn’t a fang in sight. 

Santanico is sitting on a deep veranda, lounging on a big, deep cane chair, with that cute girlfriend of hers curled up under her arm. She looks quiet, and calm, in a way Seth’s never seen before.

“If this ever happens again,” she says, smiling to him over the rim of her sturdy earthenware mug, “I will hunt you down and skin you, Seth Gecko, like the lizard you are.”

Ah. Dreamshare. Not as much fun as it sounds.

“Although if this is how your kink runs, maybe you’re not as fucked up as I thought,” she says, her smile turning sharp and suspiciously fangy. “This is deeply… Vanilla.”

Kate is sitting under a big parasol, wearing a big floppy hat and a pretty floral shirt. He can see a bikini through the shirt, and it looks sensible and pretty modest. 

There is also a knife strapped to her thigh in a leather holster, which is. Maybe not  _ vanilla,  _ per se, but it is  _ so much hotter  _ than Seth is comfortable with in a dream shared with Santanico.

“I like the ink, though,” she adds, drawing him away from Kate and back to the veranda. When he looks down, there are so many flowers inked among the black of his flames that he wouldn’t even be able to see them if he didn’t already know they were there. White and purple and deep, rich gold. “Funeral flowers, and spring flowers - if ever there was a time for a heavy-handed metaphor-”

“Her names means either torture or purity, yeah, yeah, I fucking know,” he says, and he kicks off his obnoxious neon blue flip flops right there on Santanico’s pristine porch, and charges across the sand to sink down onto the lounger beside Kate’s.

His shorts are pink. He is not going to question that. 

* * *

 

 

“You were talking in your sleep,” Kate says, wiping down the side of his neck with a cool, damp flannel. “Something about torture?”

Oh, shit. Fuck. Goddamn.

“Uh,” he manages, and she smiles.

“My name means torture,” she tells him, flannel set aside so she can hold up his head and help him sip from a glass of water - water with Pedialyte in it. Definitely torture. “Or purity - did you know that?”

He starts coughing, but he isn’t sure which he’s choking on. Is it the Pedialyte, which tastes like shit, or is it the sudden awareness that he hasn’t been even half as subtle as he thinks he has?

“Once you’ve healed up,” she says, setting aside the glass and pressing an ice cube against his mouth, holding it there until his lips go numb and he gives in, lets her slip it between his teeth. “We’re going to talk. Really talk.”

He crunches the ice cube, and she goes pink. 

 

* * *

If he felt like he could answer honestly, Seth would say that the thing he wants most from the world is a little peace and quiet. That’s what the dream meant. That’s what El Rey was supposed to be. That’s what the money has always been about. Peace, quiet, safety.

Kate smiles, when he says that out loud. Anyone else would laugh, but she just smiles, one leg tucked up and the other swinging, her heel tapping against the wheel of the car. Perched there on the trunk, she looks like there’s nowhere else in the world she could ever belong.

Seth tips his head back, leans harder against the side of the car just beside her, and passes over his beer. He watches her throat move as she swallows, and wonders what it would be like to kiss her, right there on the stretch of her neck.

“We could find peace and quiet,” she says, passing the beer back to him with a smile. “We might have to kick Richie out to get it, though.”

He shuffles close enough to wrap his arm over her shoulders, wondering if this was what he missed while he was drugged out of his mind all that time they spent together - sharing a beer, sharing some laughs, very nearly kissing.

Her nose is cold when she nudges it against his, and her hand is shaking very, very slightly when she presses her fingertips to his neck.

“You really, really need a shower,” she says, so quiet he can barely hear it. “And maybe then I’ll let you kiss me.”

 

* * *

They go on a solo heist. Well. Duo heist.

Kate wears a wig, an ugly blonde thing that looks convincing just because it looks so fake, and she stretches out her accent so she sounds like a southern belle trying to access her sadly deceased biological-but-not-legal daddy’s bank accounts.

Yes -  _ accounts. _

Kate did the research on this one, found Miss Louisa Galviston, daughter in everything but name of some fat old dude whose family owned a plantation, once upon a time, and had to sell it off piecemeal to keep up with the family debts. There’s a nice,  _ nice _ nest egg resting in the safety deposit boxes here, and so long as Kate keeps the bankers busy out front, Seth’s tidy little time loop will keep the cameras happy while he has some fun in their  _ amazingly _ secured safety deposit box vault.

The vault is barely secured. Like. At all.

It’s also right behind the front desk, with a grate open to the foyer, and he can hear Kate bullshitting the teller out front. She’s a much more natural liar than he ever would have guessed, and the girly giggles cover up the sound of his very discreet drill, when he has to use it.

He slips out fifteen minutes later, dumps the ugly security guard shirt in the trash behind the bank, and picks up his suit jacket and sunglasses and cap from where he stashed them earlier. It’s a bright, sunny day in southern Texas, and no one pays any mind to the driver with the leather holdall.

“Let’s go,” Kate says, sliding into the back of the car with her huge pink purse stuffed full of forms to be filled out by Miss Louisa Galviston, and by the time they’re to the end of the street, she’s laughing.

 

* * *

They pull in at a shitty diner and get burgers and fries and a huge cheesecake to take away, along with as much orange soda as they can buy. 

They pull in about four miles down the road, to a weird little cul de sac with nothing at all on it, hidden by blooming desert willows, and Seth joins Kate in the backseat to eat.

“Those flowers would look nice on your shoulder,” she says, tracing the shapes of the purple crocuses cresting his collarbone through his thin white shirt. “The willow flowers.”

Seth very deliberately puts their food sitting on the front seat, puts her bag and the holdall there too, and turns to face her as best he can. It’s getting late, and she’s all lit up from behind by the setting sun.

“You showered,” she says, “and I’ve decided to let you kiss me.”

She shifts very slowly, until she has him pinned back against the door, and grins. Like this, with her hair tumbling loose and the car just warm enough that all he can smell is heat and her perfume, it’s like heaven. 

“Is that so?” he manages, just as she takes off his sunglasses and tosses them aside, too. “I can get behind that decision. That is- that is a sound and sensible decision.”

Her mouth is all soft and tentative, if that’s even a word, and it hits Seth like a ton of bricks that no matter what Amaru did with her body, Kate hasn’t got a whole lot of experience in this arena.

“Tell me if you need a minute,” he says, when she eases back a little, and then he threads one hand into all that hair and tugs her in, very carefully, for a  _ real  _ kiss.

She gasps when he slips his tongue between her lips, but she wraps her arms around his neck, shifts so she’s straddling his lap, and somewhere, somehow, he spares a brain cell or two to think  _ shit, this is so much better than the last time she was on top of me in the back of a car. _

“I need a minute,” she gulps, and he’s totally okay with that because it means he can dip down to kiss her lovely neck, the hollow under her ear and down to the dip above her collarbone, and her hands are skimming over his shoulders, one scratching up through his hair, and she’s making these insane little  _ noises,  _ breathy and sweet. 

“Minute is up,” she tells him, pulling him back up for another kiss - this time she starts pulling on his tie, and has it loose before he can even get his hands to her thighs. They’re thin, but strong, and he can feel every shift and flex as she moves on top of him. Her mouth is curious now, but still soft. “Shit, Seth-”

His hands settle on her hips, narrow and round, and she gets his shirt open while he’s still concentrating on the way she shivers when he flicks his tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“No undershirt?” she questions, brow resting against his for a perfect, golden moment, just as he gets his fingers to the tendon where her thigh spreads from her pelvis. 

“Think of it as a sign,” he says, “from God, if you want.”

He can’t remember the last time he went without an undershirt, but this morning he just hadn’t felt the need, and he is  _ so _ grateful for that right now.

Her hands are warm when she presses them, firm and flat, to his bare chest, and she bites down on his lip when his fingers brush over the front of her panties. That’s warm, too, cotton-soft and burning up. She squirms every time he lets his fingers press just a little, not even hard enough to push that soft cotton between her lips, and he has another lonely brain cell to spare for  _ this is going to be so much fun. _

“Shirt off,” she breathes against his mouth, and then bites down on his lip when he hooks his fingers behind her panties and tugs them as far down her thighs as he can, which isn’t very far. “No panties until there’s no shirt, Gecko.”

“ _ Fuck,” _ he manages, sitting up so all her weight lands squarely on his dick, and then  _ “fuck,”  _ again, because he can’t figure what else to say. 

He gets his shirt off in record time, pretty sure he’s torn off the buttons on the cuffs, and then she’s kissing him again, hands skimming all over his chest and shoulders and round his back, and he still can’t quite get beyond that taut tendon and her hot, damp panties.

“If you don’t show a little initiative, I’m gonna think everyone’s oversold this whole sex thing,” she warns him. “Come on, Seth - I thought you’d be a little more involved.”

“So that’s how it is?” he teases, snapping at her sharp enough that his teeth click, laughing when she wrinkles her nose at him in return. “Okay then, Fuller, let’s get this dress off, and then we can talk about  _ initiative. _ ”

She leans back just enough to reach her zipper, pulls it down so slowly that the buzz makes him grit his teeth, and eases out of her dress - thick straps over her shoulders, no sleeves, a sundress that’s been driving him crazy all damn day because it dips a lot lower than anything she usually wears and he can’t really handle that. 

Her bra is candy pink lace, and he doesn’t have to wonder if her panties match, because she pulls her dress over her head and tosses it into the front seat, revealing that no, they do not, and that is somehow twice as hot as if they had.

“Your move, Gecko,” she says, kissing him again, this time with no hands, because her hands are busy behind her back, unclipping her goddamn bra. 

Her breasts are heavy in his hands, hot with the pale blush that’s spread all the way down from her cheeks, and she whimpers into his mouth when he brushes his thumb over one of her nipples, already firm before he touches it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he chokes out, letting her push him back against the door because it gives him better leverage to kiss her breasts, to duck down and suck on her dark pink nipple until she gives in and  _ moans.  _ “Fuck, Kate-”

He hisses against her skin when her nails, short and sharp, rake over his scalp, and she laughs against his ear.

“More,” she orders, and he gives her as much as he has to give. “C’mon, Seth, c’mon-”

He wants to magically have her in a bed, so he can get on his knees and eat her out until she’s screaming, and he wants to have the time and the space to make this special and magical like she was probably always told losing her virginity would be, but he isn’t magic and all they have is the back seat of the car, so he’ll have to make do.

He kisses her, one hand still cradling her beautiful, beautiful breasts, stroking his thumb over her nipple, and slips the other hand between her legs.

This time, he isn’t gentle - careful, yes, but firm, because if he doesn’t get out of his pants soon he’s going to lose his fucking mind, and she’s got to be right on the edge of coming before he’ll even risk taking her panties off.

Shit, how is he going to get them off her without letting her move? Because like  _ hell  _ is he letting her move an inch away right now, not when he finally has her this close.

“I’ve got this,” she says, as if she’s reading his mind, and she slips her hand into his pants pocket and pulls out his phone. She’s laughing around his tongue and more of those gorgeous, breathless moans when she tries again, this time dragging out his penknife, flicking it open and  _ cutting off her goddamn panties.  _

And she’s completely naked in his lap, and Seth is reasonably sure that he has died. Fully, completely died.

“ _ Fuck,”  _ he manages, pulling her tight against him, feeling all that soft skin warm against his body, wishing so hard for more room, for something  _ better,  _ that he almost thinks his wishes will come true.

“Where’s my purse?” she asks, when he withdraws just enough to kiss her neck some more, to worry a hickey the size of fucking Mexico into that sweep of skin, shoulder-into-neck. “Seth-”

“Front seat,” he grunts, and then scrapes his teeth sharp down the slope of her breast until his lips are around her nipple again. “Fuck, Kate, please-”

“I’m working on it,” she promises, one arm wrapped tight around his neck while she gropes around the front seat for her purse. “Shit, I need-”

He reaches out, lands unerringly on her purse, and drags it into the back with them. She digs through it for about five seconds, triumphantly bringing forth a shiny foil-wrapped condom.

“A lady is always prepared,” she says, grinning in the face of his shock. “Aren’t you glad I’m not a good girl anymore?”

He pauses for a minute, trying to find something witty to say, and settles on “Fuck,” because it hasn’t let him down yet. 

She laughs some more, and he’s pretty sure he does too, and then someone - Kate, probably - undoes his belt, and his flies, and he’s lifting his hips so she can push his pants and his boxers down his legs.

“If I’m doing something wrong,” she says, wrapping her hand around his dick and stroking just a little fast, “tell me.”

“Slow down a little or I’m going to come all over your hand,” he says, too keyed up for delicacy. “I don’t want this to be over before we get started, okay?”

She kisses him again, just because, he guesses, and smiles.

“I’m naked, you’re basically naked, and I’m pretty sure now is the time when you actually touch me properly,” she says. “I think we’ve already started.”

Just for that, he sinks his finger into her, one slick, fast slide, and is once more sure he’s dead, because she’s so fucking  _ hot. _

“Shit,” she says, and then she pulls him in by the hair again, which he is really, really liking, and kisses him stupid. He could finish her like this, easing a second finger into her and drinking down her moan, his thumb pressing firm and easy against her clit. She’s rocking against his hand, riding his fingers, and he’s not too proud to admit that he’s fucking up into her hand like a man possessed. It’s so hot. So, so fucking hot.

“Where’s that condom gone?” he says, shifting so he can get one foot planted on the seat, for better leverage, and while he’s doing that, she’s found the condom and gotten it open and is sliding it down his dick like she’s done it a hundred times before.

“I practiced,” she admits, “but don’t think I’ll ever do that thing where you put it on with your mouth.”

That is an image that he very firmly puts out of his mind, something made very easy by her taking him in hand and holding him steady, so she can get into position.

“Help me?” she asks, threading her free hand tight with his. “I don’t know-”

“Trust me,” he says, dizzy now with how much he wants to be inside her, “when I say that you are a  _ natural,  _ Fuller.”

She grins, kisses him again, and eases herself down his length very, very slowly. If this was anyone else, he’d pull them down by the hips, speed things along, but this is  _ Kate,  _ and he wants to savour this. She just feels so incredible around him that he thinks he might have an aneurysm if he doesn’t get to actually fuck her soon, but he thinks he almost wouldn’t mind dying right now.

She rises, sinks a little lower this time, and then her hips are pressed flush to his. He can feel that stretched-tight tendon pressing against his thigh, and it’s somehow surreal because it makes it so much more  _ real.  _ Yes, this is Kate, and yes, he is buried inside her, and yes, in a couple of minutes he’s going to know what she sounds and looks and feels like when she comes. It’s a lot to handle.

“Okay,” he says, one hand still laced with hers, the other sneaking back between her legs so he can get at her clit and make her throb around him. “Okay.”

Her other hand slams against the window beside his head when he rolls his hips up against hers, thumb stroking slow circles, and he looks her right in the eye as he gets to work, determined to make her come hard enough to scream even if he can’t eat her out just yet.

Maybe later tonight, when they get home. 

“Seth,” she says, eyes wide and dark and fixed on his, which is scarily intimate, more even than being inside her, because he’s gotten very good at avoiding eye contact the last few years, “oh my God,  _ Seth!” _

He kisses her, because he’s not going to last if she’s saying his name like that, her voice gone hoarse and throaty and  _ delicious. _

She begins to match him, her hips rolling a little faster than his and leaving everything just slightly out of sync, so every slam into her is a little different, a little sharper, and she’s moaning against his mouth constantly, but it’s okay, because he’s moaning into her mouth, too.

Her hand slams against the window again, the other squeezing painfully around his, when she begins to pulse and go tight, when she gets close to coming. He pulls back to watch, to listen, and is treated to something like a sunrise for his troubles.

Her head falls back, first, and then rolls to the side. Her hair is bright and heavy, tumbling over her shoulders to half-cover her breasts, and her cheeks are flushed. She bites down hard on her lip at first, trying to keep someway quiet, and then she just lets loose, gasping his name as he begins to push harder, just a little, not wanting to overwhelm her the first time.

She cries out when she finally does come, sharp like a razorblade (or a sword), and dives down to tuck her face against the side of his neck, against the crocuses growing out of the flames, and hides there while he finishes, frantic and completely overwhelmed, despite all his best efforts.

Afterwards, while he’s going soft and she’s trying to stop shaking, she takes her hand from the window and runs it over his hair, just like he’s rubbing his hand slowly up and down her trembling back, following the line of her spine from hips to shoulders and back.

“That,” she says, “was much better than I was expecting.”

She doesn’t lift her head, but he can feel her smiling.

“I’m probably supposed to be insulted by that,” he says, feeling heavy and lazy. He knows he can’t sleep now, no matter how much he’d like to, but it won’t hurt to rest here for a few minutes. Just a few. “Screw it, though, I’m way too relaxed to be pissed right now.”

She hums, still holding his hand, still smiling, and he thinks  _ yeah, we’ll give ourselves a few minutes, then we can go home.  _

It’s nice, to think  _ we  _ and  _ home _ all in one go, so he lets Kate’s breathing even out, and thinks,  _ maybe just half an hour. _

She snores. This is new, potentially dealbreaking information, but he decides he can introduce her to those nose strip things later. For now, she’s warm, and soft, and feels really nice, lying on top of him, with the light of the nearly-set sun golden on her back and crimson on her hair.

Yeah. Really nice.

* * *

 

 

It’s not a call Richie wants to make, but he made a promise.

_ “Richard,”  _ Santanico purrs, and he can  _ feel _ her smiling at him.  _ “Does this mean what I think it means?” _

“In the back of the car!” he fumes. “I have to drive that car!”

_ “You’re a wealthy man, Richard,”  _ she teases. _ “Buy yourself a new one.” _

“I went to wash it out, because the smell of sex sticks,” he says, “and I found her panties, Santanico - her goddamn panties! Tucked into the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat!”

_ “I think they’re very sweet together,”  _ Santanico says firmly.  _ “He’s been dreaming about her for months, you know.” _

“Dreaming- how do  _ you _ know what Seth’s been dreaming about?”

_ “Goodnight, Richard,”  _ Santanico says, laughing now.  _ “Sweet dreams.” _

The car smells of sex, and Santanico was  _ cheating,  _ but Seth was smiling like an idiot when Kate led him by the hand up to her room, so Richie very reluctantly decides that this is a win.

Even if it does mean he’ll probably need to move out, because no amount of soundproofing is enough for his hearing.


End file.
